


Put On A Show

by plastics



Category: BIGTOP BURGER (Web Series)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, but in an extremely lowkey way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28140498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: It's hard to imagine someone genuinely trying to kill you over a food truck rivalry, but in Billie's defense, there has been genuine firepower involved.
Relationships: Billie/Frances (BIGTOP BURGER)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Put On A Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [attheborder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/gifts).



Whatever weirdness comes with working at Bigtop Burger—and there is a lot of it—Steve is a genuinely good boss when he isn’t adopting wildlife or ghost riding the truck. Good hours. Fair pay. With some amount of regularity, he’ll comp their dinner at a real restaurant. It’s nice.

But he never really turns off the whole Steve, Owner Of Bigtop Burger, squeaker noise, squirt flower thing. And it’s fine most of the time. Harmless. But sometimes it means hiding behind a menu with two adult men, staring at a group of three other adult people. It’s like Denny’s after a middle school dance all over again. 

“You must never trust Cesare’s folk, young Billie,” Steve growls. “They flirt with death in ways that even I cannot truly comprehend.”

“Okay,” Billie says. She can’t really imagine a scenario where she would trust a group of people who’d previously tried to drive them off the road, but she can at least admit to herself that, out of their work makeup, they mostly look like normal people. Same as them.

Still, Billie stares, too. The Zomburger workers have their backs turned to them, anyway.

Then the girl raises an arm, phone in hand, like she’s taking a self. Billie feels her face go slack. The flash goes off.

🔴🔵🟡

Billie notices Frances before Frances notices Billie. It makes sense that she wouldn’t—what Bigtop lacks in ridiculous food (according to Zomburger) is made up for in spades with ridiculous costume. Frances, meanwhile, dresses like her casual wardrobe and her work wardrobe are more or less the same thing. Billie takes an appreciative glance as Frances looks over the various butter and butter-adjacent products. Very 90s living dead. Billie still feels like a tween playing dress-up half the time, and then it only sometimes circles back to an ironic sort of fun. Frances looks comfortable. Billie could appreciate that.

Suddenly, Frances’ head whips around. Her brow furrows for a moment, and Billie freezes just long enough to see her right eye widen in recognition then narrow dramatically.

“Bad enough your lot is encroaching on our territory with the truck, now you’ve got to be following me around on my off hours?” she demands.

“Uh,” Billie says. Her mind empties into a black hole at its center. This is a joke. Surely Frances is joking. She is looking at Billie like someone who expects 

Billie puts down her oat milk and turns back down the nearest aisle. She can just buy her coffee tomorrow. As a treat.

🔴🔵🟡

The next time Billie sees Frances, it’s in the parking lot of Battle of the Bands. And then on stage at Battle of the Bands. Or, well, Penny, Tim, and Steve are on stage. Billie has been kidnapped, because this rivalry stuff is too real.

It isn’t been immediately apparent as a kidnapping. At first, it seems like the same sort of trapped ‘round the watercooler things that Billie imagines happens at real jobs, but then it just kind of… drags on.

“I really feel like picking me was, like, really questionable. My dad barely managed to teach me five cords before I gave up,” Billie says. Genuine irritation has begun to set in. Really, she’s fine with, like, seventy-five percent of the weirdness in her job, but this is a bit much for her.

“Oh, please,” the guy who calls himself Doctor says, looking up briefly from where the big guy is mapping out their pyrotechnics. “Like we don’t all know a goth clown isn’t exactly the thing that would draw the affections of this crowd.”

 _“‘Affections?’_ Gross.”

“It’s just part of the theatrics. People get a bit of drama, makes them hungry enough to swing, and then when they post the videos on Twitter later, it’s like free advertising!” Frances adds. Her thick black boots are kicked up on the counter. She looks very cool. Billie suddenly resents her arch-supporting, non-slip Skechers. 

“That’s not really why I took this job,” Billie says, a moment late.

“Why did you, then?” Frances asks.

“Maybe I don’t really feel like giving my kidnappers my life story.”

Frances frowns, then looks up from her phone. “We’re not, like, physically holding you. You can leave whenever you want. It’d just kind of ruin the effect, and at this point, in for a penny, in for a pound, you know?”

And Bille, despite herself, says, “I mean, it’s a job. My dad owns a restaurant, so I thought I already know how to do everything.”

Papa had even bought all-in on the American dream, much to High School Billie’s chagrin, selling burgers and fries and milkshakes. Maybe it’d even have been useful if anything in this city’s food scene was normal. 

Frances sits up straight, dropping her feet to the ground as she says, “I want to be a chef, too! Doc and Conrad are both only here for—”

“I’m not a chef,” Billie interrupts, because she’s not and she can’t stand getting Frances’ (and her father’s, through his distant sixth sense) hopes up. “I’m an artist. I guess. Kind of.”

If Frances is disappointed, she’s at least better at hiding it. “That’s cool too! What do you do?” 

“Uh,” Billie says again. “Whatever.”

Steve’s voice is, like, unreasonably good. Doc grumbles viciously as they’re shooed out of the greenroom, but Frances holds Billie back just long enough to say, “I promise we’d never do anything to actually hurt you. Or your coworkers. It’s just for show, you know?”

“Sure,” Billie says, because it’s not like she has any other choice. “What about Steve?”

“What about him?”

“You shot a cannon at him. Is he not covered under not actually hurt?”

Frances stares at her. “Are you seriously still worried about that?”

🔴🔵🟡

Billie’s phone buzzes with a text from an unfamiliar number.

**Hey, this isn’t creepy but do you want to come over??**

**To my apartment**

**I am aware that saying this isn’t creepy makes it creepier but you know that’s like half of the aesthetic at this point 😜😜😜**

**This is Frances btw**

**From zomburger**

And while Billie is reading this, debating how to respond—if she wants to respond—another message comes through

**How long has it been since you’ve heard someone say “come to the dark side, we have cookies”?**

Billie boggles. Then she responds, _address?_

Frances only lives a fifteen minute walk from Billie’s place, which isn’t really surprising, given that they apparently share a grocery store. The building is normal enough—another non-surprise, it’s not like Billie lives in a funhouse—and the front door unlocks only moments after she presses the buzzer.

She freezes once she’s reached what should be Frances’ front door. The final text had said not to bother with knocking, but what if Billie’d read the message wrong, or Frances had sent it to the wrong semi-professional enemy?

Billie pulls out her phone again and double checks all the information. She’s already in the building. It should be fine. But what if this is one of those buildings where everyone lets anyone in? She exhales loudly, then spits the difference by knocking as she opens the door. Luckily, it opens directly into the kitchen.

“Billie!” Frances says as she turns. Billie expected a more chaotic scene, flour exploding onto black aprons, but instead she's sitting clean, braids tied up in two buns, in front of a counter with wide array of cookies, the cookies are lined out, clean and organized with a glossy layer of royal frosting laying on them. “You said you’re an artist, right?”

“… Not really a _food_ artist.”

Frances waves her off. “You’re a smart kid. All skills are transferable.”

So Billie sits down next to Frances and looks over the sketches she lays out in front of her. Frances clearly has a good enough hand of her own, and certainly more practice, but the designs are complex enough that Billie can see why she wants a second pair of hands.

Despite what Frances said, frosting isn’t a natural medium for Billie. Not terrible, but by the third almost-botched Christmas cactus, Billie says, haltedly, “I’m sorry I’m messing up your cookies.”

‘No, please. These are just, like, a practice round. I want to see how they _look.”_

And because Billie really can’t help herself, she says, “Are they another one of those ‘terrible food sells’ things?”

Frances goes still beside Billie, and she knows instantly that she read things wrong. Billie tries to apologize, “I didn’t mean—” but Frances stands up. She doesn’t go far, just to another stack of tupperware containers on her counter. When she returns, she’s holding a cookie that Billie knows in her heart would be sold as unicorn poop.

“Try it,” Frances demands.

Billie does.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Is that—?”

“Taro. Which I have to prepare myself to get away from the purple dye.” Frances deserves the bragging tone. 

Billie takes another bite. “I really didn’t mean to say that you _couldn’t_ cook. Just. You know. Theatrics sell.”

“They do. But so does good food. Depends what your goal is.”

The silence that falls feel like a loaded one, so Billie stays quiet until Frances starts to speak again, “Before this I did the whole culinary school, Michelin star restaurant apprenticeship, et cetera, thing, but after I lost my eye, I had a, you know, not even _that_ hard of a time adjusting, just a normal amount of needing time to recalibrate. That sort of kitchen isn’t really known for its patience, though, so, by the time I needed to find a new position…

“Cesare’s been great, honestly. And I know Zomburger doesn’t really look like success to any of my old classmates, but we made some shitty-ass food at my old place, too. Except they charged people a couple hundred bucks a head to get that Instagram post. It’s nice to be around _the people_ again,” Frances says, then snorts. “Does that me sound like I’ve already spent too much time around rich people?”

“A little,” Billie responds, but she bumps their shoulders to absorb back any sting from it. She holds back from asking _What’s next, then?_ Instead she says, “I’d take a picture of these _and_ eat another one.”

  
  


As they’re carefully putting away the cookies, Frances says, “Thanks for listening to me, like, dump my life story onto you. I usually try to be more chill than that.”

“It’s fine. Nice, even. That you trusted me with it,” Billie responds as she carefully tucks away a dapper little blueberry hippo. She means it, too. Billie’s always been more of a loner, but since moving west after graduation, things have started to tip more towards outright _lonely_ during her off-hours. 

And Frances is cool. Billie likes being around her, when they’re allowed to like each other.

By the time they’re washing their hands, the feel in the air had changed. Gotten a bit more… awkward? Charged. Billie wonders if she’s supposed to make an excuse to leave now. But before she can come up with anything elegant, Frances exhales loudly, stands up straight, and says, “Just. Tell me if I’ve read this wrong.”

Then her hands are on Billie’s face—she feels her cheeks burn as Frances takes another step forward. It feels like time is moving in slow motion. How is _Billie_ supposed to know if _Frances_ is reading things wrong? What if Billie is miscalculating right now, excepting something else when the real prank came fifteen minutes ago in the form of a ridiculous, delicious cookie, secretly laced with—?

Their lips meet, and the noise falls away. It’s the sweetest thing Billie’s had all day. 

“Oh,” Billie says as Frances leans back. A nervous, uncharacteristic giggle escapes from her throat, but it’s worth it to see Frances smile back at her. “Was this, like, a date?”

“Well, I figured it was either that or a job interview, depending on how things went,” Frances responds with a laugh of her own. This is nuts, Billie thinks frantically, but finally, maybe, a good sort of nuts. Fun. Something to be excited at.

Billie stumbles forward for a kiss of her own.

🔴🔵🟡


End file.
